Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 41
She shook her head, then wrapped herself in a blanket off the back of the sofa and headed up the stairs to bed. The bedroom was icy. Her feet simply couldn’t get warm, no matter what she did, and she lay on her back staring at the ceiling, her eyes too dry for tears. What was going to happen now? It was nearly Christmas, and it looked like it was going to be an absolute disaster. Would Huckle even come? And if he did, would he be able to stop himself saying something? What if everyone had a few glasses of champagne and things got a bit heated? That happened at Christmas. That happened all the time.
She couldn’t sleep now. She had to get up and prep for the bakery, then she’d promised to go over and do an afternoon tea for Reuben’s business partners and his parents.
This was the problem with work, which also made it a solution, she supposed: that it was relentless, that it was always there, however you were feeling, whether or not you were ready for it. So even though she was exhausted, and desperately worried about Huckle, she had no choice but to get up and carry on.
She was kneading bread and mainlining coffee at the kitchen table, having turned on the radio loud to try and cheer herself up, desperately trying to shake herself out of this awful torpor. She’d worked so hard to create this life for herself, to make a success of it. But now it felt like it was creaking, beginning to crash around her ears. Neil came in because he liked the music on the radio, but even seeing his little face didn’t cheer her up the way it normally would. It all felt so empty and futile, but what else could she do other than carry on?
Outside, Huckle was drawing up on the motorbike, slightly hung-over after a night on Andy’s sofa, having talked things through and realised that of course it wasn’t his business, not really. He had no right to tell anyone anything. It was awful, of course it was, a terrible thing he would have to bear, watching his best friend raise another man’s child. But it was what it was. He couldn’t get upset with Polly about it; she hadn’t done anything. And she must be utterly distraught after their fight. He shouldn’t have stormed out like that. He would apologise and they would carry on, and he’d just avoid Kerensa.
Looking through the low, wide kitchen window, he could hear the music playing and could see Polly busying herself at the table, dancing away to the radio, getting on with doing what she always did; cheerfully carrying on with life as if nothing had happened. It stung him. He’d been in agony about this, and she’d been… well.
Huckle had fallen for Polly with an absolute certitude that this was a girl who knew her own mind, her own heart; that was what he loved about her. That she was ballsy; that she grabbed hold of life with both hands, went for what she wanted. It was wonderful.
But with that went something else. Huckle had twice given up a high-powered career, knowing it wasn’t for him, that it didn’t make him happy. He much preferred pottering about with his bees, looking after them, making something lovely by hand. He didn’t care about status, things like that. It didn’t mean anything to him, much to his parents’ occasional despair when they reflected on his expensive education.
He wasn’t a go-getter, he wasn’t a workaholic; none of those things. And as he looked at Polly, the thought that was uppermost in his mind was: she doesn’t need me. She has Neil, and the bakery – look at her. I’m in agony, in despair about this, and she’s just carrying on as if nothing is happening. She’ll always be okay.
He blinked, his heart full of sadness, and missed Polly looking up and seeing him, and how her heart leapt and she wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him and beg forgiveness; promise that she would never, ever do anything like that, not ever again, that they would share everything, but please, please, please don’t tell Reuben.
Then she saw his face – so grave – and her own face fell too, as he walked in through the kitchen door.
‘Hey,’ he said carefully.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘You’re back at it?’
‘Yeah, it’s Reuben’s big party this evening, plus I’ve got some afternoon buns…’
Her voice trailed away.
‘Where were you?’
There was a tremor in it. It was fear. Huckle heard it as an accusation.
‘Out. I don’t have to tell you everything, do I?’
He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Polly just looked so sad.
‘No,’ she said, and her eyes strayed back to her work surface and the flour dusted there. Neil stayed resolutely at Polly’s side; he didn’t even come to greet Huckle as he normally would.
‘No,’ said Polly again. ‘I don’t suppose you do.’
She sighed.
‘Well, I’d better get on.’
Huckle had come back in the hope that… What? he thought. What was he hoping for? For Polly to fall at his feet, promising anything to make him stay? But that wasn’t the girl he knew. That wasn’t the girl he loved. Nothing like.
Yet to see her like this, so unfazed by everything that had happened, when he was faced with the utter horror of his friend possibly having to spend the rest of his life raising a child who wasn’t his; who wouldn’t look like him or have anything in common with him… It was just awful, and here she was, banging dough about like nothing had changed when everything had. Was this a female thing? Some secret conspiracy of girls against men? Huckle had always liked women, genuinely enjoyed their company. But this felt like a place he just couldn’t go; he couldn’t understand it, not at all.
He cleared his throat.
‘I was thinking,’ he said. ‘There’s this beauty convention, they’ve been asking me to pop in, do some display samples… maybe travel around a bit, visit a few buyers here and there.’
‘Travelling salesman,’ mumbled Polly quietly. This meant nothing to Huckle.
‘So… I’m going to take off for a few days.’
‘But it’s practically Christmas!’
‘You’re working, aren’t you? You’ll be busy,’ he said, raising his voice.
Polly blinked several times.
‘Oh,’ she said. She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t know what else there was to say.
‘I’ll get some things,’ said Huckle, staring at the floor.
Polly’s heart was beating incredibly fast in her chest.
She couldn’t sleep now. She had to get up and prep for the bakery, then she’d promised to go over and do an afternoon tea for Reuben’s business partners and his parents.
This was the problem with work, which also made it a solution, she supposed: that it was relentless, that it was always there, however you were feeling, whether or not you were ready for it. So even though she was exhausted, and desperately worried about Huckle, she had no choice but to get up and carry on.
She was kneading bread and mainlining coffee at the kitchen table, having turned on the radio loud to try and cheer herself up, desperately trying to shake herself out of this awful torpor. She’d worked so hard to create this life for herself, to make a success of it. But now it felt like it was creaking, beginning to crash around her ears. Neil came in because he liked the music on the radio, but even seeing his little face didn’t cheer her up the way it normally would. It all felt so empty and futile, but what else could she do other than carry on?
Outside, Huckle was drawing up on the motorbike, slightly hung-over after a night on Andy’s sofa, having talked things through and realised that of course it wasn’t his business, not really. He had no right to tell anyone anything. It was awful, of course it was, a terrible thing he would have to bear, watching his best friend raise another man’s child. But it was what it was. He couldn’t get upset with Polly about it; she hadn’t done anything. And she must be utterly distraught after their fight. He shouldn’t have stormed out like that. He would apologise and they would carry on, and he’d just avoid Kerensa.
Looking through the low, wide kitchen window, he could hear the music playing and could see Polly busying herself at the table, dancing away to the radio, getting on with doing what she always did; cheerfully carrying on with life as if nothing had happened. It stung him. He’d been in agony about this, and she’d been… well.
Huckle had fallen for Polly with an absolute certitude that this was a girl who knew her own mind, her own heart; that was what he loved about her. That she was ballsy; that she grabbed hold of life with both hands, went for what she wanted. It was wonderful.
But with that went something else. Huckle had twice given up a high-powered career, knowing it wasn’t for him, that it didn’t make him happy. He much preferred pottering about with his bees, looking after them, making something lovely by hand. He didn’t care about status, things like that. It didn’t mean anything to him, much to his parents’ occasional despair when they reflected on his expensive education.
He wasn’t a go-getter, he wasn’t a workaholic; none of those things. And as he looked at Polly, the thought that was uppermost in his mind was: she doesn’t need me. She has Neil, and the bakery – look at her. I’m in agony, in despair about this, and she’s just carrying on as if nothing is happening. She’ll always be okay.
He blinked, his heart full of sadness, and missed Polly looking up and seeing him, and how her heart leapt and she wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him and beg forgiveness; promise that she would never, ever do anything like that, not ever again, that they would share everything, but please, please, please don’t tell Reuben.
Then she saw his face – so grave – and her own face fell too, as he walked in through the kitchen door.
‘Hey,’ he said carefully.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘You’re back at it?’
‘Yeah, it’s Reuben’s big party this evening, plus I’ve got some afternoon buns…’
Her voice trailed away.
‘Where were you?’
There was a tremor in it. It was fear. Huckle heard it as an accusation.
‘Out. I don’t have to tell you everything, do I?’
He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Polly just looked so sad.
‘No,’ she said, and her eyes strayed back to her work surface and the flour dusted there. Neil stayed resolutely at Polly’s side; he didn’t even come to greet Huckle as he normally would.
‘No,’ said Polly again. ‘I don’t suppose you do.’
She sighed.
‘Well, I’d better get on.’
Huckle had come back in the hope that… What? he thought. What was he hoping for? For Polly to fall at his feet, promising anything to make him stay? But that wasn’t the girl he knew. That wasn’t the girl he loved. Nothing like.
Yet to see her like this, so unfazed by everything that had happened, when he was faced with the utter horror of his friend possibly having to spend the rest of his life raising a child who wasn’t his; who wouldn’t look like him or have anything in common with him… It was just awful, and here she was, banging dough about like nothing had changed when everything had. Was this a female thing? Some secret conspiracy of girls against men? Huckle had always liked women, genuinely enjoyed their company. But this felt like a place he just couldn’t go; he couldn’t understand it, not at all.
He cleared his throat.
‘I was thinking,’ he said. ‘There’s this beauty convention, they’ve been asking me to pop in, do some display samples… maybe travel around a bit, visit a few buyers here and there.’
‘Travelling salesman,’ mumbled Polly quietly. This meant nothing to Huckle.
‘So… I’m going to take off for a few days.’
‘But it’s practically Christmas!’
‘You’re working, aren’t you? You’ll be busy,’ he said, raising his voice.
Polly blinked several times.
‘Oh,’ she said. She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t know what else there was to say.
‘I’ll get some things,’ said Huckle, staring at the floor.
Polly’s heart was beating incredibly fast in her chest.
